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HARRY EDWIN MARTIN 



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The Tents of Grace 



The Tents of Grace 

A Tragedy 
And Four Short Stories 



Harry Edwin Martin 

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CINCINNATI: 
PRESS OF JENNINGS AND GRAHAM 






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by 

Harry Edwin Martin 



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YOU, DEAR MOTHER, 

I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE VOLUME, FILLED 
WITH THE CHILDREN OF MY YOUTH- 
FUL BRAIN, IN TOKEN OF MY 
LOVE AND HONOR THROUGH 
ALL THE YESTER-YEARS 
AND ALL THE DAYS 
TO BE. 



Table of Contents 

Preface, 9 

The Tents of Grace— ^ Tragedy, n 

The Voice in the Primitive- 
Story, 51 

After Many Years— Story, . . 59 

The Monster— Story, 79 

"The Port of the Unexpected" 

—Story, 85 



" Whoever thinlcs a faultless piece to see, 
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be." 

"Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 
And be each critic the good-natured man." 



PREFACE 

Man's inhumanity to man has often traced 
a border of black around many of the fairest 
pages in the annals of universal history. 
The fields are green, the flowers bloom, the 
birds sing, but man — man alone is vile. 
Perhaps we might prefer to record only 
those events which show forth the beauti- 
ful, the noble, the true; but it is only in 
the realm of fancy that all things may take 
a happy course, and just so long as man is 
man the historian must ever report the bit- 
ter with the sweet, the evil with the good. 

Wherefore it has seemed good to the 
author of this little volume to present to 
the public the story, forgotten save by a 
few, of the founding, the life, and the cul- 
minating tragedy of old Gnadenhiitten. 

It is not questioned that many, many tales 
might be found concerning the early days 
when the stalwart pioneers were blazing a 
trail through the forests of Ohio, yet it is 
doubtful whether any could be brought for- 



Preface 

ward which would equal in human interest 
and simple pathos this incident of the mar- 
tyrdom of the Moravian Indians in the 
"Tents of Grace." 

Each of the stories that go to make up 
the second part of this book has been pub- 
lished before, primarily for a small circle 
of readers. But the varied criticisms have 
been so kind and the praise so sincere that 
all have been deemed worthy of a wider 
circulation. 

The author does not doubt that you who 
read may sometimes find that which is 
prosy, and yet he hopes here and there you 
may come upon some bits of honest pathos, 
touches of human interest, and a smatter- 
ing of art. 

That you may find herein a story of an 
almost forgotten historical incident which 
I)rovcs to be enlightening and interesting, 
and that you may further find the four short 
stories to be of some interest and delight, is 
the sincere wish of the author. 

Harry Edwin Martin. 

Scio College, Sci'o, Ohio. 
September 2g, igto. 

lO 



The Tents of Grace 

A Tragedy 

Resting peacefully in the scenic Tuscara- 
was Valley, in Ohio, is the town of Gnaden- 
hiitten. A stranger visiting the village will 
note the beautiful site; the wide, shaded 
streets ; the pretty, flower-dotted lawns ; the 
neat homes ; and the thrifty, genial inhabit- 
ants and their tranquillity ; but unless he is 
very familiar with the early history of Ohio 
he utterly fails to comprehend why the town 
is called Gnadenhiitten, nor will he realize 
that this is an historic, almost sacred, spot. 
Here, where peace and happiness now pre- 
dominate, one of the saddest tragedies of 
all history occurred — a tragedy of pathos 
unsurpassed and involving Christian forti- 
tude akin to martyrdom. Here at the clos- 
ing of the eighteenth century a dream of 
Christian empire came true for half a score 
of years — and then ended in annihilation. 

II 



The Tents of Grace 

It was late in the summer of the year 1772 
that two companies of Moravian missiona- 
ries and their Indian followers, after many 
and severe vicissitudes, arrived upon the 
banks of the Tuscarawas River — then 
known as the Muskingum. They came 
from Fricdenshuetten, on the Susquehanna 
River, and from Friedenstadt, in the Alle- 
gheny region, both within the bounds of 
Pennsylvania, and they migrated to the new 
Ohio country, hoping there to make homes 
wliich would be free from the encroach- 
ments of the unfriendly white man. The 
first company to arrive, under the leadership 
of the missionaries, David Zeisberger and 
John Heckewelder, stopped about two miles 
south of the present city of New Philadel- 
phia and founded the village Schonbrunn, 
or "Beautiful Spring'" named thus because 
of the small lake which was nearby. By 
October 9, 1772, the second company had 
reached the valley and farther down the 
river had begun the building of a town 
which the builders aptly christened Gnaden- 
hiitten, or "Tents of Grace." 

The Tuscarawas \^alley was an ideal 

12 



The Tents of Grace 

place for the founding of such a religious 
empire as the devout missionaries planned. 
It was then inhabited almost solely by the 
Delaware tribe, who will be remembered as 
among the clans of red men with whom 
William Penn made his famous peace treaty 
in the long ago. These peaceful Indians, 
feeling their inability to check the westward 
advance of white civilization, had moved 
from Penn's colony several years before and 
had established their headquarters in the 
beautiful Tuscarawas Valley. One of the 
leading Delaware villages, but ten miles be- 
low Gnadenhiitten, was King Newcomer's 
Town, situated where now stands the town 
of almost similar name. Other than these 
friendly neighbors, who had invited the 
Moravians to dwell in the valley, the Chris- 
tians found everything congenial and de- 
lightful. Nature was here prodigal of all 
her stores. Fine woodlands covered many 
a hill and hollow, and great fertile fields 
stretched away on every side. Forest and 
field abounded in game of numerous kinds, 
and the little river was full of fishes of va- 
rious sizes. The climate was excellent — 

13 



The Tents of Grace 

warm in summer and mild in winter — and 
the air was pure and wholesome. 

The company founding the "Tents of 
Grace" was under the leadership of Joshua, 
a Mohican elder, and was composed mainly 
of ^lohican and Delaware Indians, all of 
whom had emhraced Christianity. The only 
white persons dwelling here were two or 
three teachers and their families. Sur- 
rounded by such peaceable neighbors and 
with such delightful natural environments 
Gnadenhiitten soon became a pleasant and 
prosperous hamlet. It was well laid out. 
but had only one principal street, which was 
long, wide, and straight. The houses and 
chapel, as in all of the new settlements, were 
built of rough and hewn logs. Each of the 
homes contained only one room, but usually 
had an attic overhead and a cellar under- 
neath, and was enclosed by a picket fence. 
The crude doors swung on wooden hinges, 
the small windows were made of greased 
paper, the rustic furniture was hand-made, 
and through a hole in each door hung the 
necessary latchstring as a token of welcome 
to friend or stranger. None but professing 

14 



The Tents of Grace 

Christians were allowed to make their 
homes here, yet notwithstanding this ban 
the population steadily increased ; for many 
of the neighboring Indians buried the battle- 
ax, accepted the white man's religion, and 
became men, not savages. 

In this little kingdom so far from Eastern 
civilization, industry and order were neces- 
sary. Under these two guiding principles 
the inhabitants became well-to-do farmers 
with now and then a proficient tradesman. 
Joshua, the leader, was an expert cooper 
and canoe-maker. The wide and fertile 
bottoms on either side of the river gave 
ample opportunity for labor, and visitors 
from Pennsylvania and from the savage 
tribes living farther north and west mar- 
veled at the sight of the large, waving fields 
of grain, the patches of vegetables, and the 
hills dotted with cattle and poultry. In- 
deed, civilization had seemingly let down 
her mantle here in the blossoming wilder- 
ness, and Christianity had leavened the sav- 
age heart. 

Generosity and kindness were also 
marked characteristics that classed the Mo- 

IS 



The Tents of Grace 

ravians wholly apart from the other Indians. 
Whenever possible the red men from afar 
would journey to Gnadenhiitten in order to 
be recipients of the kindness and the gifts 
of its inhabitants. All visitors were treated 
with Christian courtesy, and food in abun- 
dance was offered to them. And oftentimes 
the Moravians gladly ransomed prisoners 
when their savage captors passed through 
the town on their return from a marauding 
expedition along the frontier. 

These simple red men were earnest and 
sincere in their religious zeal. Each day 
the bell on the mission church called the 
people to prayer, and while the men and 
boys were busy in the fields, hunted game, 
or fished, and while the women did their 
household duties or assisted the men. the 
children were being taught by their faithful 
white teachers to read, to write, and to 
honor God in all things. The government 
of the village, it might here be said, was ad- 
ministered by the missionaries and their 
helpers who were selected from among the 
more educated of the Indians. Questions of 
great moment, of course, were always sub- 

i6 



The Tents of Grace 

mitted to the people. At all times, let it be 
known, the Bible was the great statute book 
of the "Tents of Grace." 

Such, indeed, was the daily life of the 
meek Moravian Indians. As we look upon 
the Indian of yesterday all of this seems one 
vast Utopian dream. But the facts of his- 
tory — immutable as they are — prove it all 
a reality. Under the influence of Christian- 
ity, guided by their white brethren, these 
wild men of the forest put aside the toma- 
hawk, learned to forego revenge, and left 
off unchastity and drunkenness to become 
obedient, honest, and industrious toilers. 
As we give thought to them and their tragic 
story we should venerate them not as sav- 
ages, but as civilized men, faithful and un- 
affected in their Christian beliefs. We 
should honor them further because reflect- 
ing from their lives are lights that even to 
this day have not been extinguished. They 
lived and they perished as Christian men. 

It is an interesting fact that the first white 

child born in Ohio was John Lewis Roth, 

who opened his eyes to the light of day on 

the 4th of July, 1772, at Gnadenhiitten. 

2 17 



The Tents of Grace 

Historians have differed as to who really 
was the first white child born within the 
bounds of Ohio, but no authentic record of 
a birth previous to this date has so far been 
found. The rip:ht of Roth to be Ohio's first 
son is found in the official diary of the 
Gnadenhiitten mission, now preserved in 
the archives of the Moravian Church at 
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, which reads: 
"J"ly 4, 1773. To-day God gave to Brother 
and Sister Roth a youns^ son. He was bap- 
tized into the death of Jesus, and named 
John Lewis, on the 5th instant, by Brother 
David Zeisberci^er." 

The opening of the Revolution marked 
the beginning of the hardships of the mis- 
sion town. These afflictions, however, 
proved to be only the foreboding shadows 
of the crisis — the cataclysm. The year of 
1775 had been a most prosperous one, both 
in a spiritual and in a temporal sense; but 
by 1777 progress in the development and 
expansion of all the mission towns along 
the Tuscarawas Valley had come to a halt. 
The Christian Indians and missionaries be- 
ing opposed to war, thinking it wrong, re- 

18 



The Tents of Grace 

mained neutral. In so doing they, perhaps 
unknowingly, were the silent allies of the 
Americans, because their peaceful attitude 
influenced a great part of the Delaware 
tribe to refrain from taking the warpath in 
behalf of the English. The Detroit com- 
mandant and his faithful accomplices, the 
renegades and savage chiefs, did all in their 
power to persuade, and afterwards to force, 
the entire Delaware tribe to enter the serv- 
ice of England, but failed. 

Gnadenhiitten lay on the main trail be- 
tween the British headquarters at Detroit 
and the American post at Fort Pitt, which 
made it a ver}^ desirable vantage-ground for 
the English forces, if the aid of its inhab- 
itants could be secured. Several of the con- 
verts did yield to persuasion and joined the 
warring clans, but the great number of the 
Christian red men were not moved by the 
enticements of those who would have the 
Moravians go back to barbarism in order 
that they themselves might be amply re- 
warded by the Red Coats of Detroit. Plots 
were then laid to force the Christians to 
array themselves under the Cross of St. 

19 



The Tents of Grace 

George ; but tlirough all intrigues and plots 
they continued steadfast. They neither 
took up the battle-club nor spilled the blood 
of any man. Content to worship God and 
treat all men as brethren, they went about 
their daily tasks, patient in their persecu- 
tions and all the while wholly unthoughtful 
of what these plots and tricks of coercion 
augured. 

In August, 1 78 1, a band of about three 
hundred savages, flying the English ensign 
and commanded by the renegade Elliott and 
a Wyandot chief, Pomoacan or Half King 
l)y name, entered the Tuscarawas Valley 
with the express purpose of removing the 
obnoxious Christians. When near Salem, a 
mission town founded shortly after the 
building of the 'Tents of Grace," the Half 
King sent a message to the Christian In- 
dians, assuring them of his friendship and 
asking which of their three settlements 
would be most convenient for a council. 
Gnadcnhiittcn was deemed the most suit- 
able, and. acting accordingly, on August 
nth the savages encamped on the west 
side of that hamlet. Within a few days a 

20 



The Tents of Grace 

meeting was held, at which the Wyandot 
chief advised a speedy removal, and in the 
course of his address, as reported, we find 
these words: "I am much concerned on 
your account, seeing that you live in a dan- 
gerous spot. Two powerful, angry, and 
merciless gods stand ready, opening their 
jaws wide against each other; you are be- 
tween both and thus in danger of being de- 
voured and ground to powder by the teeth 
of either one or the other, or of both. It 
is, therefore, not advisable for you to stay 
here any longer.'' 

The missionaries courteously replied to 
this speech, but with their followers de- 
clined to leave their pleasant homes until 
they thought it more expedient. On hear- 
ing this the majority of the savages evinced 
a willingness to depart, but the renegade 
and his two English comrades persuaded 
them to continue faithful to the Detroit 
commandant and to help remove the Chris- 
tians as soon as conditions were favorable. 
The days slipped by until September came, 
when it unfortunately happened that two 
Moravian Indians, whom the missionaries 

21 



The Tents of Grace 

had sent to Pittsburgh with information 
concerning their precarious situation, were 
captured by the savages. This event was 
enlarged upon by Elhott as the conclusive 
proof of his contentions, that the JMoravian 
Indians were friendly to the rebelling colo- 
nists, and that the missionaries were Ameri- 
can spies. This gave things a turn. Half 
King wavered in his friendliness towards 
the Christian red men, and another meeting 
of the leaders of both parties was called. 
Still the Moravians persisted in their un- 
willingness to desert their settlements. The 
intruders insisted that this must not be. 
The council broke up in confusion. The 
missionaries were seized and made pris- 
oners, and the greedy savages began plun- 
dering the village. 

By September loth the outrages of the 
pillagers had become so distressing that the 
Moravians consented to abandon their 
homes and do the bidding of their perse- 
cutors. On the following day with their 
teachers they were ruthlessly driven toward 
Detroit. With heavy hearts and intense 
suffering the captives trudged on for one 

22 



The Tents of Grace 

hundred and twenty-four miles through the 
trackless wilderness until Sandusky was 
reached. Here the Christian Indians were 
liberated and warned with many threats not 
to wander back to their homes, while their 
captors moved on to Detroit, taking with 
them the missionaries, whom the savages 
deemed dangerous should they be permitted 
to remain with their followers. 

This was a sad exile. The Moravians 
had left behind three pleasant settlements — 
Gnadenhiitten, Schonbrunn, and Salem — 
their well-kept homes, their churches and 
schools, their cattle and poultry wandering 
in the fields, an abundance of corn in store 
and three hundred acres of grain ripening 
in the bottoms, great patches of vegetables, 
and numerous valuables that had been hid- 
den away in the cabins. Their books and 
writings, which were used in the schools, 
had been burned by their captors even be- 
fore their northward march. Great was the 
material loss of this forced removal to the 
Moravians, but there was still a greater 
loss. The glory, the hopes, and the bless- 
ings of the Christian Kingdom on the little 

23 



The Tents of Grace 

Tuscarawas River constituted a volume 
henceforth forever closed. 

Left alone in the Northern forests, the 
exiles began to be in want. The small stock 
of provisions that had been brought with 
them was soon consumed. Game was 
scarce, corn was not to be obtained, and it 
appeared that no means of sustenance could 
be found. They wandered from place to 
place, subsisting on whatever could be se- 
cured that was at all edible, until finally 
stopping at a place, afterwards known as 
Captive's Town, they prepared to spend the 
remainder of the winter. While the huts 
of poles and bark were being built, a few 
of the bravest Moravians dared to disregard 
their restricted liberty and returned to the 
Tuscarawas Valley for grain. Seven were 
captured, while the few who escaped 
brought back only about four hundred 
bushels of corn. This supply was speedily 
exhausted, and the ravenous wolf of starva- 
tion stared them in the face. Something 
must be done, and that right quickly. After 
deliberation it was decided that a company 
of men and their families should return to 

24 



The Tents of Grace 

their old homes to secure a good supply of 
corn, which yet stood unharvested in the 
fields. 

Acting on this resolve, over one hun- 
dred and fifty Indians with eager hearts set 
out early in February, 1782, for the mission 
towns. When the party arrived in the 
valley it divided into three detachments, the 
first going to Schonbrunn, the second to Sa- 
lem, and the third to Gnadenhiitten — all 
working for a common purpose, the secur- 
ing of food for their starving brethren in 
the barren wilderness. With joy they la- 
bored, hastily husking, shelling, and sack- 
ing the corn, ever anxious for the day to 
draw near when they should have com- 
pleted their task and would be able to hasten 
back to their friends with that which alone 
would give them renewed strength and life. 

During the years between 1779 and 1782 
the Wyandotte and other warlike tribes had 
been on many marauding expeditions, at- 
tacking the lonely cabins and hamlets along 
the frontier and slaying their inmates and 
inhabitants. Slaughter and destruction 
were rampant everywhere. In 1779 some 

25 



The Tents of Grace 

seventy-live men, under the command of 
Colonel Rodgers, were slain near where 
now is the site of Covington, Kentucky, and 
early in the summer of 1781 Colonel Loch- 
ry's force of one hundred men was also 
annihilated. These atrocities, linked with 
the startling number of homes and families 
destroyed, aroused the ire of the border- 
men. And quite often, after perpetrating 
many of these vicious crimes, the cunning 
savages would make a hurried retreat in the 
direction of Gnadenhiitten, causing many of 
the unknowing to suspect the Moravian In- 
dians as the principal culprits, and leading 
others to think that they at least had a hand 
in the depredations. 

And so it appeared inevitable that every 
event that transpired was but a stimulus to 
the rising anger and ferocity of the Indian 
fighters toward the humble Christian red 
men. Conditions were driving fast in the 
direction of chaos, tragedy, destruction. 
Multitudinous and varied are the stories 
that have been told and scattered broadcast, 
purporting to give a cloak of justice or le- 
gality to this black crime and to shield the 

26 



The Tents of Grace 

criminals. But truth, mighty, unalterable 
truth strips bare the falsity of all these sto- 
ries and leads the honest historian and stu- 
dent to call the perpetrators of the terrible 
massacre murderers of innocent men and 
women and children. 

One story, and perhaps the one most re- 
lated, pertained to the murder of the Wal- 
lace family in 1781, which event, the nar- 
rators tell us, precipitated the movement 
which consummated in the wiping out of 
the mission kingdom on the banks of the 
little Tuscarawas. The apologists have 
cited with much warmth the burning of the 
Wallace cabin and the capture of the mother 
and her three children, whom the savages 
led away toward Gnadenhiitten. An Indian 
hunter named Carpenter, who had been cap- 
tured by the savages, w^as being led over the 
trail when he is said to have come upon the 
body of the youngest child at the side of 
the path where it had been impaled, to have 
seen the mutilated body of the child's 
mother, and also to have found, some 
time later, the bloody garments hidden in 
one of the cabins at Gnadenhiitten. Then 

27 



The Tents of Grace 

followed the assembling of Williamson's 
men. 

This story, after diligent search of rec- 
ords and comparison of credited historical 
accounts, is found to be only partly true. 
First of all, the Christian Indians had noth- 
ing whatever to do with the crime, be- 
cause at the time of its perpetration, late 
in the fall of 1781, they w^ere exiles in the 
northern wilderness ; and furthermore, the 
finding of the bloody dress in the village is 
only traditional and, excepting Carpenter, 
no evidence of its discovery has ever been 
found. And Carpenter had his dates and 
details so mixed that even some of his 
friends doubted his veracity. It is true, 
however, that the mother and baby were 
slain in a cruel manner, but the other two 
children were taken care of. one growing 
to manhood and the other son dying a 
natural death. Minus all its falsity, this 
story is yet most tragic ; still it was not un- 
like hundreds of such crimes in those days. 
.\11 things, however, moved towards a cli- 
max, for the frontiersmen were aroused and 
thirsted for the life and scalp of the red 

28 



The Tents of Grace 

man, be he heathen or Christian. Only the 
wreaking of vengeance would satisfy them. 

At the coming of March, 1782, word was 
passed along the border enjoining all men 
to assemble and at once march to the Tus- 
carawas Valley, for the sole purpose of 
completely destroying the mission towns 
and their inhabitants. Over the hills and 
along the valleys of the frontier sped the 
portending news. With all speed of horse 
and foot the men hastened to Mingo Bot- 
tom, the designated rendezvous, eager to 
spill the red man's blood. They came 
singly, in pairs, and in squads, and all were 
men of brawn and daring. Some had hearts 
of flint and faces that scowled in their in- 
explicable hatred of the savage. A few 
loved mercy, but the vast majority knew not 
the meaning of such a word. 

This company gathered without legal 
authority, and consequently had no ap- 
pointed leader. The officer in charge of 
Fort Pitt, who at this particular time was 
absent from his post, was kept in the dark 
concerning the proposed raid and learned of 
it only when the time for intervention had 

29 



The Tents of Grace 

passed. But with the self-assertion of fear- 
less men they picked the one whom they 
considered best suited for such an atrocious 
task, and this man was none other than 
Colonel David Williamson, of Pennsylvania. 
He at once assumed leadership, and at the 
appointed time the two hundred men who 
bad assembled began the march. With 
many ridin.c: and a few walking, the aven- 
gers advanced carelessly and without order 
along the trail leading to the "Tents of 
Grace." No twang of conscience nor feel- 
ing of fear bothered these men — they had a 
villainous purpose, and boldly and arro- 
gantly would they carry it out. 

On Tuesday evening, March 5th, the 
Pennsylvania militia, as these men called 
themselves, neared Gnadenhiitten and 
camped upon the farther side of the hill 
overlooking the mission town. The follow- 
ing morning the pioneers held their council 
and decided to attack the hamlet and de- 
stroy its inhabitants at once. They moved 
nearer, and then the company was separated 
into two detachments ; one was to go for- 
ward to the river, cross over to the western 

30 



The Tents of Grace 

side, and capture the Indians at work in the 
cornfields, while the other division was to 
surround and take the village. 

The first party, on coming near to the 
river bank, found a lone halfbreed, whom 
they instantly and mercilessly killed and 
scalped, although upon his trembling knees 
he had begged that they might spare his life. 
They attempted to cross the river, which at 
this time was somewhat swollen from recent 
storms. Unable to find a canoe, only six- 
teen succeeded in reaching the opposite 
shore, and this they luckily accomplished by 
means of a large wooden trough which had 
formerly been used by the Moravians for 
collecting sap from the maple trees. The 
little band with more than usual caution 
ascended the bank. Realizing the utter fu- 
tility of attacking the large number of In- 
dians in the fields, the sixteen frontiersmen 
quickly changed their plans and quietly ap- 
proached the laborers as friends and breth- 
ren. They sympathized with the Moravians 
in their suffering and banishment, and all 
the while mingled with them as they joy- 
ously gathered the grain. This was to be 

31 



The Tents of Grace 

the last day of gathering, as they expected 
to begin the return to their fellow-Chris- 
tians at Captive's Town on the following 
rnorning. But, alas ! that was never to be. 
After numerous and varied fraternal inqui- 
ries and words of compassion and solicitude 
the border-men told the Indians that they 
should prepare for a journey to Pittsburgh, 
where they and their starving brethren 
would be given food and homes. Pitts- 
burgh, or Fort Pitt, as it was then com- 
monly called, was a very dear name to the 
meek Moravian red men. The commandant 
there had always shown his friendship for 
them, and upon receiving such an invitation, 
which apparently came from Colonel Gib- 
son, of Fort Pitt, the Indians with one ac- 
cord believed implicitly in the veracity of 
the white men. Gladly giving expression 
to their eagerness to comply with the wishes 
of their professed friends, they immediately 
laid aside their work and began the return 
to the "Tents of Grace" to make ready for 
the journey to what appeared to them to be 
a land flowing with the milk of abundant 
prosperity and the honey of unmolested 
liberty. -^2 



The Tents of Grace 

In the meantime the other division had 
entered the village. At its outskirts some 
of the men had found, hiding among the 
hazel bushes, a defenseless man and his 
wife, whom they quickly murdered. The 
town being empty of all inhabitants, the 
border-men took complete possession and 
awaited the approach of their companions 
and the Indians from the cornfields across 
the river. When they did finally come near, 
those occupying the hamlet noted the seem- 
ing friendship that existed among the red 
and white men, and intuitively grasping the 
situation, also accosted the Moravians as 
friends. After a profusion of further greet- 
ings and questions the frontiersmen casually 
suggested that if the Indians would give 
their weapons over into the safe-keeping of 
their white friends they could immediately 
begin to get ready for the pilgrimage to 
Fort Pitt. The Moravians agreed to this 
suggestion, turned over all their arms, and 
with a will set to work hunting up and gath- 
ering together their belongings. 

One of the Moravian teachers, John Mar- 
tin, and his son on their way to Salem came 

3 33 



The Tents of Grace 

near Gnadenhiitten at this unlucky hour. 
Noticing the presence of other people in the 
valley than their brown brethren, the twain 
rode nearer to the village. On seeing the 
Americans going to and fro among the In- 
dians, the missionary hastily concluded that 
the blessing of protection and liberty had 
come to his people — that for which he had 
long hoped and prayed. Sending his son 
to the ''Tents of Grace" to apprise the 
Americans and his brethren that he had 
gone to Salem with the good tidings of 
temporal salvation, he hurried on with a 
light heart, dreaming of better days for the 
Moravian Indians. Salem, it must be re- 
membered, was about five miles below Gna- 
denhiitten, and its site was near the present 
\illage of Port Washington. 

After a short consultation with the Chris- 
tian red men, Martin, accompanied by two 
of the older and more educated men from 
Salem, liastened back to the "Tents of 
Grace." The trio, speaking in behalf of 
their brethren, gladj^v accepted the proffered 
protection of the Americans and asked that 
a small guard bo sent with them to lead 

34 



The Tents of Grace 

back their fellow-Moravians from Salem. 
This request was granted, but the sending 
of the men was put off until the following 
morning. The remainder of the day they 
put to good use by helping the unsuspect- 
ing Moravians to bring together all their 
treasures and goods. Early Thursday 
morning, March 7th, a band of the border- 
men, with the two veteran Indians as guides, 
marched off, purposing to bring back the 
red men who had been laboring in the fields 
near Salem. When the company reached 
its destination the workers were found al- 
ready assembled and anxiously waiting the 
coming of their deliverers. With all speed 
they began to return to Gnadenhiitten, from 
which place the entire body of Moravians 
v/as to start on the journey to Pittsburgh. 

But back in the mission town of erstwhile 
prosperity and peace things had taken a 
turn. The valuable and treasured goods, 
which the Moravians had hidden before 
they were driven into the north some few 
months previous, had -all been unearthed 
and brought together, and everything was 
in readiness for the departure. It would be 

35 



The Tents of Grace 

easy now for the avengers to accomplish 
their purpose and then flee with the spoils. 
This, indeed, was the border-men's oppor- 
tunity. Without warning and w'ithout de- 
lay they sprang upon the helpless Indians, 
made them captives, and imprisoned them 
in two houses : the men and boys were 
placed in one, while the women and chil- 
dren were thrust into another. 

When the ^loravians from Salem came 
upon the bloody spot where Schebosh, the 
halfbreed, had been killed the day before, 
they naturally were startled and amazed. 
They turned to question their pretended de- 
liverers, but before they could speak the 
Americans had pounced upon them. Tying 
their hands and otherwise making escape 
impossible, the white men led them into the 
villa.c^e. and immediately they were placed 
in the caljins with their brethren. Now, in- 
stead of the friendly words and the cordial 
greetings, the Moravians heard only the 
wild curses and diabolical taunts of their 
villainous captors. The friendship of the 
Americans was changed to the merciless 
cruelty of enemies thirsting for the blo<id 

,16 



The Tents of Grace 

of their captives. The insanity of insatiable 
vengeance dominated. Justice had de- 
parted, and mercy was dead. 

Wilhamson's men held a council. What 
should be done with their captives ? Should 
they be taken direct to Fort Pitt as prison- 
ers of war or should they at once be slaugh- 
tered? The major number of the men out- 
spokenly favored the latter plan, but there 
were in the company a few who apparently 
preferred the former. Due to the disagree- 
ment that was in evidence, a long discussion 
ensued, wherein every man had the privi- 
lege of airing his opinions, and many did 
so with no little profanity and a notable 
paucity of logic. A trial then followed, 
and a make-believe one it was, too ! The In- 
dians pleaded their innocence of the charge 
that they were criminals, explained their 
honorable intentions, spoke of their friendly 
interest in the American cause, reiterated 
their simple belief in the Christian religion, 
and enunciated their disbelief in war. Some 
of the frontiersmen wavered at the red 
men's honest plea, and no unanimous con- 
clusion could be reached. The so-called 

37 



The Tents of Grace 

trial ended. To settle the discussion a vote 
was decided on. All the men were drawn 
up in line, and Colonel Williamson, in ring- 
ing tones, commanded that all who favored 
taking the Moravian Indians to Pittsburgh 
as prisoners should step forward and form 
a second rank. Of the two hundred men 
only eighteen moved forward. The ques- 
tion was settled, the die cast. Upon flimsy 
allegations they were to murder innocent 
Christians — men, women, and children, who 
worshiped the same God and lived better 
and purer lives than they, the assassins. 

Several of the Americans desired to set 
fire to the houses and at the same time cre- 
mate all the Indians and completely wipe 
out the village. The greater number, how- 
ever, wished to kill and scalp the prisoners 
one by one, and then, after this was done, 
to set the cabins on fire. The purpose was 
to proceed at once with the massacre ; but 
the Moravians earnestly pleaded that as 
Cliristians they be given until the following 
morning to make ready for the grim death 
that awaited them. The request was finally 
granted, and the border-men prepared to 

38 



The Tents of Grace 

spend the night pleasantly, further deliber- 
ating on the best means of accomplishing 
their murderous intents and in giving them- 
selves up to slumber and carouse. 

At first the Indians were overwhelmed by 
the announcement of the massacre. The 
consternation that fell upon those meek and 
credulous men and women, boys and girls, 
can scarcely be described. Men and women 
moaned and wept, while the voices of chil- 
dren rose in strident cries and wails. All 
repeatedly protested their innocence and 
craved freedom. But all was in vain — no 
ear heeded their pleadings. After the first 
hour of bitter weeping and dread despair 
the consciousness of their firm faith in God 
and of their innocence gave them renewed 
courage and strength when thus brought 
face to face with their inexorable fate. 
Such strength and courage came to the 
Christian red men as came to the devout 
martyrs who, in Nero's time, sang songs of 
triumph while they waited, in the Roman 
arena, for the hungry lions to pounce upon 
them. And then conditions changed in the 
two cabins, and all prepared to spend their 

39 



The Tents of Grace 

last hours of life in meditation, exhortation, 
prayer, and song. 

The night — black, portending night — 
wore slowly on. Within the prison-houses 
the Moravians in subdued and vibrant tones 
sang their hymns and offered up their 
prayers, beseeching the protection and care 
of the Infinite One in their time of extrem- 
ity. Some of the better-educated men and 
women exhorted and gave encouragement 
to their more timid friends, and those who 
had harbored any ill-feelings against their 
neighbors forgave and were forgiven. Al- 
though the hours crept by but slowly, yet 
they held not the fear and despair of the 
hour just following the terrible death-edict. 
And as the prayers and songs of faith and 
triumph ever and anon reached the ears of 
the wild and revengeful Americans many 
grew strangely calm and thoughtful, while 
some of the less heartless ones, believing in 
and touched by the sincerity of the devo- 
tions of the Moravians, slipped away 
through the shades of darkness, climbed 
the hill just back of the village, and spent 
the night where they heard not the exhorta- 

40 



The Tents of Grace 

tions, prayers, and songs. But by the 
greater number of the Americans the devo- 
tions of their Christian prisoners were un- 
heeded. Such worship touched no respon- 
sive chords in the hearts of the border-men 
who crowded about their commander. 
Colonel David Williamson. 

The new day dawned — it was Friday, the 
memorable eighth day of March, 1782. The 
day was fine, and neither shadow nor cloud 
presaged the approaching tragedy. Coming 
from the cabins still could be heard the fer- 
vent supplications and trimphant hymns. 
To the inquiry if they were ready to die, 
the Moravian Indians gave this heroic re- 
ply: "We are ready. Jesus, to whom we 
have committed our souls, gives us the as- 
surance that He will receive us." 

Immediately the awful massacre began. 
Two cabins were designated as "slaughter- 
houses." One, the cooper-shop formerly 
used by Joshua, the Mohican elder, was 
selected in which to kill the men and boys, 
and another building nearby was chosen in 
which to slay the women and children. A 
native Pennsylvanian, whose name has long 

41 



The Tents of Grace 

since been forgotten, had charge of the 
massacring of the males, and it is told of 
him that, on entering the cabin, he seized 
a large mallet from the work-bench, re- 
marking as he did so, ''This exactly suits 
the business in hand." The captives, now in 
a fair measure completely resigned to their 
terrible fate, were bound and led into the 
"slaughter-houses" two at a time. The first 
to receive the deathblow from the mallet 
was Abraham, the oldest of the victims, 
whose long, shaggy gray hair had caused 
some of the assassins to previously remark, 
"What a fine scalp this will make !" One 
after another of the doomed was roughly 
brought forward, given the fatal blow, 
scalped, and left lying upon the floor. 
Upon receiving the first blow some of the 
victims started up dazed and stunned, but 
with a second blow they would reel, stag- 
ger, and fall to the floor beside their dead 
and dying comrades. 

Some loudly begged for mercy, some 
prayed, and still others remained silent as 
the instrument of destruction was lifted 
above their heads. The prayers and cries 

42 



The Tents of Grace 

of the doomed, the arrogant profanity of 
the executioners, the dull, sickening thud 
of the mallet or tomahawk as it sunk itself 
in the skulls of the ^Moravians — all these 
varied sounds intermingled most unharmo- 
niously. 

In both cabins the lifeblood of the Chris- 
tian Indians discolored the puncheon floors 
and ran in rivulets across the boards and 
streamed through the cracks to the cavelike 
cellars beneath. The males were slain 
first, and then came the slaughter of the 
women and the little children. The first one 
of the females to be massacred was Judith, 
an educated and beloved leader among the 
women of the mission towns. It is also 
authentically told that one woman, who 
spoke English fluently, when led into the 
chamber of death fell to her knees before 
Williamson and begged for his mercy. He 
scornfully replied, "I can not help you." 
And thus without pause the horrible, blood- 
chilling work went on until ninety persons 
had been cruelly murdered: twenty-nine 
men, twenty-seven women, eleven girls, 
eleven boys, and twelve infants. In all 

43 



The Tents of Grace 

ninety-six were massacred, six of whom met 
death at the hands of the Americans in or 
about the towns previous to the general 
slaughter. 

The massacre was over, and an appalling 
sight the ^'slaughter-houses" presented! 
The floors of both buildings were covered 
with lifeless bodies huddled indiscriminately 
here and there in great pools of blood. In 
one corner might be seen a father and in 
another his son ; or here might be a mother, 
and there, separated by a heap, perhaps, was 
her babe of a few weeks. No just man 
could have gazed upon that scene without 
feeling, for the time at least, that there 
was no justice and no mercy under the sun, 
and that the innocent suffered for the sins 
of the guilty. 

But two boys, Jacob and Thomas, es- 
caped. They were both scalped, but the 
blov.'s from the mallet had only stunned 
them. After loosing his bonds Jacob cau- 
tiously slipped through a trap-door into the 
cellar. Here, with the blood of his friends 
slowly dripping upon him, and with terror 
written on every ligament of his face, he 

44 



The Tents of Grace 

crouched in a corner until evening, when 
he squeezed through the one small window 
and fled into the woods. Thomas lay quiet, 
feigning death, until nightfall, when he 
carefully crept over the dead bodies of his 
brethren and ran off to the forest, where he 
came upon Jacob after a short search. To- 
gether they hurried to Schonbrunn to warn 
their friends at that place of the impending 
danger and relate to them the tragedy of 
the "Tents of Grace." Abel, another boy 
who had only been stunned by the execu- 
tioner's blow, was in the act of making his 
escape when one of the murderers espied 
him. A blow from a tomahawk quickly 
laid low the last of the Indian martyrs. 
Another lad, named Benjamin, younger 
than either Jacob or Thomas, is said to have 
been saved in some way, and tradition has 
it that when the Moravians were captured 
this youngster's comeliness so attracted the 
attention of a young minister that he. 
against the wishes of his companions, took 
the lad from among the prisoners. The 
sweetheart of the preacher had been mur- 
dered by the savages, and he had joined the 

45 



The Tents of Grace 

border-men to avenge her death. (3n reach- 
ing the mission town and hearing the story 
of its inhabitants, however, he became con- 
fident of the innocence of the Christian red 
men and refused to take part in the mas- 
sacre. It is further told that the minister 
cared for the lad until he had grown to 
manhood, at which time the call of his 
heritage had become so loud and insistent 
that he gave way to it and returned to his 
tribe. 

Others of the hundred and eighty-two 
men voting for the slaughter of the inno- 
cent, like the young divine, after more 
thought hesitated upon taking an active part 
in the annihilation. Consequently the num- 
ber of men who actually did the work of 
binding and leading forth, of slaying and 
scalping the Moravians, was not nearly so 
many as vauntingly had entered the Tusca- 
rawas Valley for that purpose. However, 
in this day and age we can not look upon 
even the silent onlookers of such a mon- 
strous deed with any degree of condescen- 
sion, for while in the sight of a few they 

46 



The Tents of Grace 

may not be so mired in the crime, yet they 
were part and parcel of the criminals. 

After securing all the plunder possible, 
they applied burning brands to every build- 
ing in the town — nothing was to remain of 
the mission town save its memory. As the 
flames from the burning homes raised their 
accusing light, the men in wild revelry rode 
away, never dreaming that they had been 
the perpetrators of a crime that would for- 
ever mark the darkest and most disgraceful 
page in the entire history of the white man's 
treatment of his red brother. The curtain 
had fallen, the tragedy had ended, and for 
cold-blooded cruelty its equal has never 
been enacted by civilized man. Thus the 
fruit of ten years' arduous labor was appar- 
ently lost. The dream of Christian empire 
that had for so short a time come to reality 
was no more — nor was it ever possible 
again. 

Bowed down under the burden of sadness 
and scattered hopes which fell upon the mis- 
sionary, David Zeisberger, after hearing of 
the massacre, he was led to write in his 

47 



The Tents of Grace 

diary on April 8, 1872, these sentences: 
"Nowhere is a place to be found to which we 
can retire with our Indians and be secure. 
The world is all too narrow. From the 
white people, or so-called Christians, we 
can hope for no protection, and among the 
heathen we have no friends, such outlaws 
are we!" 

As to what finally became of the male- 
factors, little is known. Finding the coun- 
try at large detesting such inhumanity, 
those who had a hand in the crime tried 
to hold their knowledge of it in secret. 
Nevertheless the particulars crept out in 
odd ways and at divers times. The more 
bold had circulated many stories of the Mo- 
ravians in a strenuous effort to throw the 
blame for the massacre from their own 
shoulders, but the more conscientious and 
timid told the truth ; and all these facts, 
link'ed with the stories of the two escaped 
boys, give ample authentic history of the 
tragedy of the "Tents of Grace." 

Some sixteen years later, 1798, kind 
friends gathered up the bleached bones and 
gave them decent burial at the eds^e of the 

48 



The Tents of Grace 

destroyed hamlet. An attempt at refound- 
ing the mission was made in 1798 at 
Goshen, near Schonbrunn, but the rapid 
coming of the white settlers had such a de- 
morahzing influence among the Indians that 
they soon had to be taken elsewhere. The 
white settlers founded the new Gnadenhiit- 
ten the same year, and although it grew 
slowly, yet it was a thrifty German farming 
center. 

To-day a tall shaft, erected in 1872, 
marks the spot where the ninety martyrs 
met death. Three grassy mounds point out 
the resting-place of the bones of the In- 
dians, the site of the old mission church, 
and the spot where stood the cooper-shop 
which had been used, you will remember, as 
one of the ''slaughter-houses." A little far- 
ther away, imbedded in concrete, is a part 
of the tombstone that had been erected over 
the grave of the beloved Joshua, the Mohi- 
can elder of the "Tents of Grace," giving 
the date of his death as August 5, 1775. 
Here and there can also be seen two or 
three depressions in the earth's surface 
which once had been the cellars beneath the 

4 49 



The Tents of Grace 

homes of some thrifty Christian Indians. 
And what was the site of old Gnadenhiitten 
is the large and beautiful cemetery and 
monument grounds of the Gnadenhiitten of 
the present. 



50 



The Voice in the Primitive 

With wide-opened eyes and tightly-gripped 
weapon the man halted, stooped, and peered 
among the trees. A breaking twig, he 
thought; and that, when no wind stirred, 
proclaimed the presence of life. Perhaps 
it was his victim. The blood leaped hot 
within his veins demanding vengeance. He 
strained his eyes, listened, and waited. Not 
a sound fell upon his ears. The awesome 
silence of the primeval forest alone was ap- 
parent. It must have been a bird stirring 
in one of the trees, thought the dark, keen- 
eyed man as he hastened on through the 
narrow valley, following even more closely 
than ever the well-nigh hidden trail. 

Long hours and many miles had been left 
behind as he hurried on. Cunning as he 
was he felt himself matched now, but still 
the eternal hatred gave him renewed energ}' 
to continue the hunt. Always he had 

SI 



The Voice in the Primitive 

thirsted for the blood of the red man. 
Perhaps it was because of his ancestors — all 
men of brawn and battle ; or, maybe, it was 
the spirit of the border. But now he had 
cause for a feeling of hatred an hundred- 
fold more intense than ever before ; for not 
twenty-four hours had left their marks of 
intermingled sorrow and rage upon his 
brow since some vagrant had touched a 
brand to his little cabin and laid low his 
young wife with a blow from the fatal 
tomahawk. He had been up at Fort Pitt 
securing some needed supplies, and at noon 
had reached what was once his home, as 
the dying flames derisively flung themselves 
skyward. At once the frontiersman looked 
about for some signs of the departed des- 
peradoes, and strange as it seemed, so far 
from an Indian village, the moccasin tracks 
of but one person were discerned. So, fear- 
ing little that he might come upon a band 
of savages, he immediately had set out. 

Hours ago he had left behind the Ohio 
River flowing tranquilly on to the Father 
of Rivers, and over many hills and along 
numerous streams he had hurried after his 



The Voice in the Primitive 

prey, until in the afternoon of the day fol- 
lowing the crime he must have been more 
than fifty miles from Fort Henry, not far 
from which had been situated his home. 

Harder and harder became the task of 
keeping on the trail. Stratagems, he knew, 
were being used to lead him away from his 
proposed victim, but with the stubborn 
tenacity of a great purpose, born of un- 
quenchable hatred, he kept on. At last, 
when the sun had almost hid itself, he came 
to the base of a gently sloping hill and 
halted. Bending, he examined the turf on 
all sides, retraced his steps a few feet, and 
came back, a sense of failure coming over 
him. So far he knew he had followed the 
trail closely, continually; but here at the 
foot of the hill it seemed to end. No tracks, 
no marks, no broken twigs or crushed 
leaves gave evidence that any one had 
passed beyond this point. Possibly his 
enemy was hidden in the undergrowth on 
the hillside waiting his approach; but no 
bird uttered a note of fright nor fluttered 
nervously about, as is usual when anything 
other than bird and beast infests the forest. 

S3 



The Voice in the Primitive 

Without fear, and yet guardedly, he moved 
eastward and then westward, hoping to 
come upon some sign that would betray the 
direction the savage had taken. This effort 
was futile. Then he ascended the hill till 
he came to an open place, not unlike a di- 
minutive plain tucked away from its wonted 
place and surrounded by trees. Disap- 
pointed and chagrined at his inability to fol- 
low his eneniy, the man raised his eyes from 
the ground and looked about him — first at 
the upturned bowl of sky, and then at the 
rivulet and the woodland that stretched 
away on every side, like some magnificent 
garden of the Cyclops. 

Suddenly and unexpectedly his gaze 
ceased to wander and his face became rigid 
and flushed — flushed with the fever of his 
passion for the red man's blood. To his 
right, not an hundred yards away, he saw 
faint clouds of smoke floating up from 
among the trees. There was his victim. 

Again he was the Indian fighter, fierce, 
bold, determined. Quietly, shrewdly he 
hastened from the open place into the for- 
est and, gliding from tree to tree, he crept 

54 



The Voice in the Primitive 

upon his foe, who doubtlessly was prepar- 
ing his evening meal, wholly unaware of the 
proximity of his enemy. On through the 
undergrowth and among the trees he si- 
lently sped until, not fifty feet away from 
his hiding-place behind a great oak, the 
hunter saw a solitary Indian sitting on his 
haunches before a small fire. 

The time for vengeance had come. He 
raised his long rifle and steadied it against 
his shoulder. His eye, following along the 
sights of the barrel, rested on the breast of 
his victim. His eye was true. Never had 
he missed his aim. A moment more, and 
the savage would be writhing in the death- 
struggle. Then taking a full breath, with 
finger against the trigger, he watched the 
redskin as he sat before the fire of sticks 
and leaves. How he despised the red man ! 
His finger pressed more heavily against the 
trigger. 

A strange sound, a distant echo, now low 
and soft, and now more distinct, came from 
over and beyond the hill's crest. The 
hunter's finger relaxed. Still came the 
sound — tinkle, tinkle, tinkle ! Away back 

55 



The Voice in the Primitive 

in Boston in his boyhood days he had heard 
similar sounds ; it was the ringing of a bell. 
What did it mean? 

Strange stories which he had heard at 
Fort Henry came to his mind — stories of 
the "Tents of Grace," beautiful hamlet of 
the Moravians, and how each morning at 
sunrise and each evening at sunset the bell 
on the little mission church called the lowly 
red men and women to prayer. 

Wondering, the hunter turned to the sav- 
age and again raised his rifle. Then, as his 
eyes noted the details, the stories which he 
had heard and thought of only as mythical 
became realistic. 

The Indian no longer sat in repose before 
the blazing coals, but stood erect, with arms 
folded and head bowed. No longer the un- 
tamed red man of history, he understood 
the call of the bell and gave heed — he 
prayed to the white man's God. 

Slowly the passion for the blood of this 
Indian abated and was still. The frontiers- 
man lowered the rifle, glanced at the Chris- 
tian Delaware, and then hastened away, 

S6 



The Voice in the Primitive 

only a little later to find the lost trail and 
hurry on over the hill, beyond the ''Tents 
of Grace,'' and north toward the Wyandotte 
town. 



57 



After Many Years 

The twilight fast gives way to the gather- 
ing gloom of night's shadows. Another 
day, after giving to Edward Hillmann its 
full quota of health-building enjoyment, has 
passed to Him who gave it; and now Hill- 
mann sits, idly enough, in an easy rocker 
upon the piazza of his boyhood's home. 
The man's mind, however, is far from idle. 
He is laying ingenious plans for the work 
he is to do, the battles he is to fight, and the 
victories he has vowed to win when this 
life in God's out-doors shall have given 
him back the superb physical manhood of 
yesterday. 

In the house Hillmann's sister busies her- 
self with her usual after-dinner tasks. 
When these are finished she throws aside 
her apron and passes into the parlor, there 
to commune with her beloved piano. And 
no sooner did the girl's skillful fingers be- 
gin to draw from the instrument the di- 
vine soul of melody, which God Himself 

59 



After Many Years 

must have placed therein, than Hillmann's 
plans are cast aside for future consideration 
and he has no longer any power or sense 
save an ear to hear and a soul to appreciate. 
Then, as the girl begins playing an old, 
sweet selection, a favorite of another day, 
the man gains another sense — even an eye 
to see, to see, not the present or the future, 
but a scene from the archives of his past. 

There is a far-away village, there is a 
stately mansion, there is a parlor sumptu- 
ously yet modestly furnished, there is a 
young man — Hillmann himself — comfort- 
ably lounging amid the depths of a huge 
rocker; and last, there is a girl seated at a 
piano playing the same soft snatch of song. 

To look into the young man's eyes as he 
gazes at the girl is to know that, to him at 
least, she is the maiden beautiful, the chef- 
d'oeuvre of the Master Builder. 

But love's path often takes a spiteful turn 
and a multitude of rocks appear. And so 
it is that after the selection is finished, and 
while these young folks are talking, as all 
lovers do and should, a trivial word is 
spoken, a wrong construction is placed upon 

60 



After Many Years 

it, jealousy stalks in, a lively quarrel en- 
sues, and in a few brief moments the girl 
is lying on the floor crying as though her 
heart has been broken, while the man, with 
hands tightly clenched, is walking swiftly 
away from the house which has held and 
still holds — although he would not admit it 
now — all that he holds dear. 

Hillmann's sister has ceased playing and 
taken her seat beside him on the wide pi- 
azza, but he does not see her. The vision 
of the past still holds sway over him and 
he sees the events since that night of fate 
pass, one by one, before him, this being 
their purport: 

He longed to ask her forgiveness and be 
reinstated into her favor, but he was a 
worthy descendant of a long line of un- 
yielding men, and the days passed fruit- 
lessly by. After a while business called 
him to a permanent residence in a great 
city many miles to the north, and soon 
thereafter he heard that Marie Ayres had 
gone abroad and so ended his knowledge 
concerning her. He tried to forget her and 
to imagine that they had but indulged in a 

6i 



After Many Years 

harmless flirtation. Although he appeared 
to the world as a strong, genial man of af- 
fairs, he knew that there must ever be an 
aching void which the years could not en- 
tirely fill. 

Hillmann did find a peace, however, a tu- 
multuous peace, which almost satisfied his 
wants. Being well versed in politics and 
having some ability as a speaker and writer, 
he decided to give up his clerical position 
and enter the political world, espousing a 
rising reform party. Although stigmatized 
a crank, a fanatic, and a fool, he enjoyed 
his chosen work, and soon came to believe 
that it was his calling. His past disappoint- 
ments, he felt, were designed to show him 
that he must labor in behalf of humanity, 
be a friend of the oppressed. 

As the weeks passed into months, and the 
months into years, he worked harder and 
accomplished the greater results. Becom- 
ing noted as a vote-winner the scope of his 
work broadened until he became well 
known throughout his own State and those 
surrounding it as a practical and sagacious 
poHtician. 

62 



After Many Years 

The longer he remained in the service the 
more fascinating it became, and he grew 
ambitious for poHtical honors. Several 
times he accepted his party's nomination for 
minor offices, each time going down to de- 
feat. But Hillmann was not discouraged, 
for he saw the party slowly but surely grow 
from a mere handful to a vast multitude 
that would soon carry all the elections. 

At last the time he had dreamed of drew 
near, and Hillmann saw that his party's 
prospects for carrying the coming State 
election were most excellent, but his share 
of the work which brought about these 
prospects made it necessary that he should 
consult his physician. 

"Threatened with a complete physical 
collapse ... a month's rest in the coun- 
try," was the verdict; and being a man of 
sense, Hillmann went back to his boyhood's 
home, where he was now regaining his lost 
vigor and trying not to care that this very 
day had ushered in the convention which 
was to have meant so much to him. 

The pale moon grows brighter and 
brighter as it sails slowlv, majestically 

63 



After Many Years 

across the dusky dome of sky. One by one 
the twinkHng stars appear. TwiHght has 
given place to the night, whose coming it 
ever forecasts. 

''Mister ! Mister !" The words cause the 
man to break forcibly away from his rev- 
erie, and he sees a messenger standing be- 
fore him. 

"Are you Edward S. Hillmann?" 
*'Yes," he answers, taking the message 
the boy tenders. Entering the dimly-lighted 
hallway, he turns up the gas, opens the tele- 
gram, and reads: 

"Edward S. Hillmann — Your presence at con- 
vention imperative. You may be nominee. Come 
at once. 

McDowell, Chairman." 

Hastily writing an affirmative reply, he 
passes back to the piazza and hands it to 
the messenger, who immediately disappears 
in the gloom of the tree-lined driveway. 

O, that it might be true that the great 
honor he had expected to work for upon 
the convention floor would now come to 
him as an unsought reward for his years of 
labor and sacrifice, and that upon the eve 

64 



After Many Years 

of victory ! With this thought in his mind 
Hilhnann hastly prepares for his entrance 
upon the scene of action. All lassitude and 
weakness have passed from him, and in the 
shortest possible space of time he is speed- 
ing over the rails toward the State capital. 

The train draws up at the depot, and Ed- 
ward S. Hillmann, genial politician, steps 
out of the smoking-coach and into a cab 
that has been sent for his use. The sun, 
four hours high, sheds a glorious warmth 
through the cab's open window, bathing the 
prospective candidate in a glow which 
seems to him a presage of success. 

A delegation of Hillmann's political 
friends stands near the curb in front of the 
convention building awaiting his coming. 
He is conducted, at his request, by way of 
a side entrance to a room back of the plat- 
form. The chairman welcomes him almost 
before he has time to enter the room. Their 
hands meet in a long, strong clasp of friend- 
ship. 

''Glad to see you, Ed ; your 're just in 
time. Nominations come off soon. I 've 
saved you a seat on the platform ; so come 
on." 65 



After Many Years 

"No, Will ; if it 's all the same to you, 
I 'd rather rest here a few minutes. I 've 
not yet gotten back my full health, and my 
long ride has tired me." 

A few moments are spent in conversing 
about minor matters, then Chairman Mc- 
Dowell goes upon the platform to attend 
to the manifold duties of his office, leaving 
Hillniann to follow at his pleasure. 

The long ride has made the man tired, 
indeed, and forgetting the high honors 
which may be in store for him, he falls 
asleep. An hour passing finds him still 
sleeping soundly, but the awakening time is 
near; for in the auditorium the people are 
calling, "Hillmann ! Hillmann !" 

McDowell himself passes into the ante- 
room and awakens the sleeper. 

''Man! Man!" he whispers, as Hillmann 
rubs his heavy eyelids, "you are the man 
of the hour. Come, the people call for their 
candidate." 

As one in a dream, Hillmann follows the 
chairman to the platform. He scarcely 
hears the brief, well-chosen remarks of in- 
troduction, nor yet the cheering which fol- 

66 



After Many Years 

lows as he takes his stand before the vast 
audience. 

What is it that these people expect of 
him, that their eyes need be fastened so 
steadily upon him? Then, as a realization 
of the meaning of it all comes to him, he 
trembles, and an overwhelming sense of his 
utter unworthiness of this great honor ren- 
ders him speechless. He has gained fame 
as a fluent talker, but now he strives ear- 
nestly to grasp from the unwonted empti- 
ness of his mind a few appropriate words 
to say, and cannot. 

The people, however, note neither the 
trembling nor the struggle; they only see 
the man who is to lead their party to vic- 
tory, and they rise to their feet, cheering 
vociferously and waving hats and handker- 
chiefs. 

Hillmann smiles and bows his head in 
appreciation. His heart is palpitating 
loudly, and he blushes for fear that those 
sitting near may hear it. 

Eight thousand eyes are upon him, eight 
thousand ears are alert to hear every word 
he may utter. He gazes vacantlv at this 

67 



After Many Years 

great sea of humanity, and his heart, still 
beating like a mighty trip-hammer, seems 
to come up into his throat, choking him un- 
til his breath comes only in long-drawn 
gasps. He feels that he can never speak, 
and yet he dares not fail. For a few mo- 
ments his eyes roam aimlessly about, pass- 
ing and repassing the numerous eyes before 
him, then a particular pair of eyes attracts 
him — and he is looking up into old familiar 
depths of the long ago. 

"My God !" he mutters beneath his 
breath, ''it is Marie, Marie." 

This sudden sight of the woman he has 
loved — yes, and still loves — looking down 
as she is from the front tier of seats in the 
balcony into his face, seems to add the fin- 
ishing touch to his helplessness. In an in- 
stant, however, Marie turns her head, and 
as she does so Hillmann thinks he sees a 
tear glistening upon her dark lashes. The 
tear appears to be just what he needs, for 
as the people are beginning to wonder at 
his silence, he speaks. 

For fully an hour he talks, encouraging 
his comrades to buckle tighter their armor 

68 



After Many Years 

and g'o into the campaign to win. From 
desultory remarks he advances into flights 
of oratory which hold his hearers spell- 
bound as he moves on and on until he 
reaches a powerful climax. Then the 
crowd goes wild, and people rush pellmell 
to the platform to grasp the hand of this 
modern Cincinnatus, this man who has been 
called from the ranks to be their leader. 

But Hillmann cares not at all for this 
applause and these handshakings. His 
thoughts are love-songs to the woman who 
inspired his speech, alternating with vows 
that he will find her and claim her as his 
own. 

The remainder of the day is spent among 
political friends and the evening is devoted 
to a great banquet, but when the next morn- 
ing is ushered in Hillmann begins his 
search. The directory fails to disclose any 
Miss Marie among the city's Ayers' so he is 
compelled to turn to very uncertain and 
tedious ways. Friend after friend he calls 
aside, questioning each more skillfully than 
a tactful woman could, naming and describ- 
ing the woman in so casual a way that not 

69 



After Many Years 

one of them dreams that a favorable answer 
would mean more to the questioner than the 
satisfaction of a passing curiosity. Just as 
he is beginning to fear that a house to 
house canvass of the city will be necessary 
his inquiries are successful. A friend, 
recognizing the description as fitting a 
woman he has seen upon the piazza of a 
certain house, gives him the proper direc- 
tions. 

Early in the afternoon Hillmann wends 
his way toward the house where dwells his 
beloved. His nerves seem drawn tense and 
his heart is filled with pleasant anticipations. 
Can it be possible that just as he is about to 
become the State executive he is to be 
blessed with the greater joy of love's re- 
turn? Verily, God's favors come in show- 
ers. 

Hillmann reaches the house, ascends the 
steps leading to the veranda and presses the 
button of the electric bell. The door is 
opened by an elderly woman, who ushers 
him into the drawing room. Handing the 
woman his card he asks her to take it to her 
mistress. 

70 



After Many Years 

As the moments pass Hillmann begins to 
wonder if Marie really lives here. Suppose 
his friend has been mistaken or he has mis- 
taken his friend's directions ; what excuse 
can he give for this intrusion? He hears 
the rustle of skirts upon the carpet and he 
sees a woman coming toward him. There 
has been no mistake, for he is looking into 
those eyes which he saw yesterday for the 
first time since the happy days of the long 
ago. 

For a moment the two stand silent. Then 
Hillmann springs forward with arms out- 
stretched and clasps the woman in a pas- 
sionate embrace. Marie does not resist. 
She clings to him, her warm breath fanning 
his flushed cheeks, her great eyes looking up 
into his, telling over and over the old, old 
story — the sweetest story ever told. Ah, 
this is happiness of which the man has never 
dreamed. Politics and political ways are 
nothing ; fame and power are trivial things. 
Love only is man's highest destiny. Love 
is life. 

But belated happiness sometimes strikes 
a discordant note. Suddenly Marie's face 

71 



After Many Years 

grows livid with shame. Springing from 
the arms which hold her in so fond an em- 
brace, she drops into a chair, buries her face 
in her hands and sobs bitterly. 

Unable to comprehend the meaning of 
these actions, though a vague sense of fail- 
ure has come upon him, Hillmann bends 
over her and implores her to tell him what 
is wrong. Marie does not answer, only 
sobs the more. He tries to take her hand, 
but she snatches it from him. Then he 
presses his lips against her hair, and the 
woman springs to her feet and in a voice 
filled with the agony of the mystery of pain 
she cries : 

''Edward, my love, — God, forgive for 
such words — why have you come to tempt 
me?" Then pointing to a portrait of a 
man hanging upon the wall, she resumes, in 
the same voice. "That is my husband. Do 
you understand me, Edward? ^ly hus- 
band." 

Hillmann's face takes on the pallor of her 
own, and noting this the woman continues: 
"Do n't look that way, Edward. God knows 
how I loved you ; how I waited for you — 

72 



After Many Years 

waited, and wept and pra}-ed that you might 
return. When I was compelled to give up 
all hope I tried to forget, and when this man 
came I listened to him and thought I had 
forgotten. How I have suffered!" 

Hillmann's mind is in an uproar and the 
terrible meaning of her words overwhelms 
him. He is drinking wormwood — a potion 
more bitter than death. His mind burns in 
the awful caldron of an earthly hell, and he 
paces up and down the room, faster and 
faster until it seems that he can never stop. 
Surely he is going mad. He cares not ; in- 
deed, he longs for a madness that forgets. 
"Too late ! Too late !" in letters of fire 
these words stand out before his mental 
eye, and he gnashes his teeth, muttering be- 
neath his breath, 'T have been a fool, a mis- 
erable idiot. She is not to blame." 

"Go," Marie is pleading all the while, 
"Go, forget me and be a man. Your fellow- 
men are looking to you for leadership, and 
you must not, dare not fail them." 

Hillmann does not heed her, in fact he 
scarcely hears what she is saying, and he 
continues to walk and mutter, mutter and 

73 



After Many Years 

walk. Then the power of his love over- 
comes every consideration of manhood and 
honor. He comes to a standstill just before 
her and fiercely grasps her delicate wrists. 

''Come," he cries hoarsely, "what is your 
husband to me, or to you ? I love you ; you 
love me. Nothing else matters. Come!" 

IMarie's answer comes soft and tremulous, 
"Edward, come with me." 

He follows her from the room into the 
hall and up a stairway, his fierceness melt- 
ing away in shame at his every step. Open- 
ing a door near the head of the stairs, the 
woman steps aside and Hillmann enters. 
He has been ushered into a bedroom, and 
beside the bed he sees a cradle and a baby 
sleeping soundly within its quilted softness. 

"Edward," the woman's voice is choked 
with tears, "do you ask me to leave my 
child ?" 

Without a word Hillmann turns and 
walks from the room and down the stairs. 
Mechanically taking his hat from the rack 
he passes out of the house. His future, his 
impaired health, his candidacy — everything 
is forgotten save the woman, as he trudges 

74 



After Many Years 

on and ever on. The city is left behind and 
he walks along a suburban highway. He 
feels tired and sits upon a large rock by the 
roadside to rest. Looking at his watch he 
sees that it is five o'clock. He has walked 
continually for nearly three hours. Taking 
a handkerchief from his pocket he wipes 
away the great drops of perspiration gath- 
ered upon his forehead. In returning the 
cloth to his pocket he notices that he has 
dropped a note. Picking it up he opens it 
and reads : 

"Executive meeting to-night to outline 
the coming campaign. Your presence de- 
sired, C Hotel parlors at eight o'clock. 

"W. J. McDowell, Chairman." 

What does it all mean? The words of 
the note pass and repass through his brain 
in a meaningless melange. He tries to 
grasp some import from it all, but fails and 
casts the note aside. 

Then a sense of rest, such a feeling of 
content and ecstasy as he has never known 
before, comes to him, and he rises to go 
back — he knows not where. He can not 
walk, but wabbles like a man under the 

75 



After Many Years 

power of Bacchus and finally falls to the 
grassy ground by the side of the road. 
Still he is happy. A joy surges over him 
like a beautiful tidal wave upon a sandy 
beach. In the distance a sweet feminine 
voice is singing a love lyric. From a tree 
a thrush trills a merry greeting to his 
mate, who promptly answers from a shrub 
near by. 

The sun, like a blazing beacon, lies close 
to the horizon for a time, then hides itself 
behind the distant hills. The twilight 
comes on apace. Hillmann smiles. The 
woman is coming — she must come. He 
plucks a wild rose growing near and waits. 
She comes and sits by his side. Soft, warm 
hands caress his forehead ; soft, red lips 
press upon his own, 

"My love, my love," he whispers softly, 
"we will flee, we will flee, we will flee — " 



From "The C Press-Post:" 

"Last evening about seven o'clock the 

Honorable Edward S. Hillmann. the 

candidate for Governor, was found near the 

76 



After Many Years 

pike north of the city, muttering inco- 
herently and phicking wildly at the grass 
* * * His mental powers are gone, and 
recovery is doubtful. * * *" 



77 



The Monster 

His heart beat with the Hh of transcend- 
ent joy that came with the consciousness 
of the greater happiness. Ever battUng 
with the obstacles common in the pathway 
of the Hterary artist, he had tasted of the 
wholesome things of life but lightly, and 
now he was lifted to the highest pinnacle of 
happiness. His den was a heaven as he sat 
resting in his easy chair, thinking of the 
abundant blessings of these days. His 
heart hummed a lyric to her who had 
given him her love and in the giving had 
brought this joy of hfe. 

All day literary friends and other ac- 
quaintances had come and gone, each with 
pleasing words of congratulation upon the 
announcement of his approaching marriage 
to a society leader of the city. Now, for a 
few minutes, at the day's farewell, he was 
alone, rapturously lost in the wonderland 
of his dreams. Soon, very soon would be 

79 



The Monster 

the culmination, the realization of his 
visions of abiding love — for in four and 
twenty days he was to wed the fair Hilda, 
goddess of his soul. 

But he had forgotten. The Monster 
loomed up before him in all its titanic ter- 
ribleness — the Monster that dogged his 
footsteps by day and haunted his bedcham- 
ber by night. In other days, when he had 
thought of it and his love a chilling fear 
stole over him, but having turned a deaf 
ear, it now gave him little trouble. He 
argued that she would never know, never 
see the skeleton which was a part of his life. 
And so it was, lost in the ecstasy of his con- 
suming love, he ever forgot. But as the 
thought came at this time he trembled and 
cried out bitterly against his heritage. 
Then wath a laugh he thrust the image of 
the Monster from his mind. 

Finally he arose, entered his dressing 
room and soon after passed into the street. 
He was going to see Hilda, and together 
they would plan the future. 

An hour later with tlie full moon lighting 
his way the man hurried up the tree-fringed 

80 



The Monster 

walk to the great veranda. Hilda herself 
opened the door, and he stepped across the 
threshold. 

"Everett, you are late! What is the 
cause?" 

"Nothing, Hilda, save that I have 
dreamed of you overmuch to-day." 

The girl moved closer and as the light 
from the chandelier fell across their faces 
each gazed into the eyes of the other. 
There was a silence fraught with many 
sweet thoughts, but no words gave them 
utterance. He smiled and grasped her 
hand. She appeared more of a queen to- 
night than ever before, a goddess to be 
loved and cherished forever. What a 
happy mortal he was, blessed with such a 
love! 

The evening passed away most pleas- 
antly. Many were their hopes, many were 
their plans. Then the topic of conversation 
turned to himself and his work. 

Like the cleaving of the heavens by the 
lightning's flash, suddenly and without 
warning, came the terrible thought of the 
Monster. It filled his mind ; it crushed him 

6 8l 



The Monster 

to the earth. The conversation lulled and 
became desultory. 

Should he divulge his secret, or should 
he marry her and keep silent? At the 
former idea his mind revolted, and as to the 
latter — God ! what could he do ? Should 
he deceive her ? No, his love was too pure, 
too sincere for deceit, and yet he dare not 
disclose the curse of his life. Maddened, 
he arose and paced the room. 

"What troubles you, Everett?" she ques- 
tioned abruptly in a constrained voice, her 
eyes fused with anxiety. 

''It 's too awful ! I — I — " and he was 
silent. 

**What is it? Tell me," came the impera- 
tive words. 

"Don't, girl. I can't, I can't!" He 
ceased his pacing to and fro, and stood be- 
fore her. 

"You must tell me, Everett. Be calm 
and explain. Between you and me there 
can be no secrets." She endeavored to re- 
main calm, but fear made the words falter 
and tremble as she spoke. 

"I love you, Hilda; love you above every- 

82 



The Monster 

thing else this world or the next can give; 
yet I can not, O ! I dare not tell you of this 
curse. It is crushing me, and I can not for- 
ever blight your life — I love you too much 
for that. Forgive me, but it is best that 
we — that I — " The tongue ceased in the 
performance of its function and the man 
stood mute, his face haggard and his eyes 
lusterless with a despairing plea. 

The girl breathed hard. A flame lit up 
her cheeks and then was extinguished, leav- 
ing them pale and drawn. She leaned for- 
ward. 

"Everett! Everett!" she moaned, her 
chin quivering. 

He attempted to speak, tried to loose his 
tongue that he might better explain ; but 
only one word, low and tremulous, fell from 
his lips. 

"Hilda !" 

But she was sobbing and heard him not. 
Turning he staggered into the hallway and 
out into the avenue. 

The woman and the world would never 
know that through his veins coursed the 
blood of the Ethiopian. 

83 



''The Port of the Un- 
expected" 

Many minutes he had watched the girl with 
approval and with pleasure. Having laid 
the open magazine, which she had been 
reading, down upon the bench by her side, 
she looked out over the expanse of water to 
the steep, wooded hills of the Little Moun- 
tain State. Wakefield having noted her 
beauty, moved away to the opposite side of 
the deck, only to return a few minutes later. 
Perhaps it was chance, maybe it was 
providence; but just then a stronger breeze 
than was wont to stir swept across the deck 
of the little steamer which was moving 
lustily down the Ohio, and tossed the maga- 
zine from its resting place to the deck at 
Wakefield's feet. Leaving his place, where 
he sat upon the deck-railing, he picked it 
up — and casually glancing at the open page, 
noticed the title of the story. His face 
flushed and he returned the magazine with- 
out daring to face the owner squarely, fear- 

8s 



The Port of the Unexpected 

ing lest he might divulge his secret that 
he — well, he did n't want the girl to know. 
After acknowledging her thanks he ven- 
tured a question : 

"And you prefer viewing the scenery 
along the river's borders to reading?" 

She turned her eyes upon him. Wake- 
field's eyes met hers, and for an instant he 
was enthralled, enraptured, gazing as he 
was into the depths of great limpid wells 
of deep blue that held those enslaved who 
dared look therein. 

"I can hardly say, but, of course, it de- 
pends on the scenery and on that which I 'm 
reading," she answered in even tones, allow- 
ing her gaze to wander to the West Vir- 
ginia shore. 

"I would rather have a mixture of the 
two," he volunteered, continuing to admire 
the large eyes, the resolute chin, the buoy- 
ant countenance, and the great mass of sun- 
wove hair arranged so bewitchingly upon 
her head. 

Still reticent, the girl hesitated, then turn- 
ing again to the young man, she asked : 

"What class of reading do you enjoy?" 

86 



The Port of the Unexpected 

"Strange to say, 1 favor the tragic and 
those stories which deal with real life — life 
that appeals to one's whole being, that stirs 
and thrills one to the very finger tips." 

"I, too, enjoy such stories. I have just 
now finished such a one in this magazine," 
she remarked, tendering the copy to Wake- 
field, who had left the place on the railing 
and taken a deck-chair. 

"Have you read this story?" he ques- 
tioned, pointing to the open page. 

"Yes," she hastened to reply with zest, 
"I have read 'The Port of the Unexpected,' 
and think it by far the best story in the Au- 
gust number. Indeed, it has been a long 
time since I have read one so interesting. 
The plot is simple and yet so original. It 's 
certainly a great story." 

"I 'm glad you enjoyed it," Wakefield re- 
marked, a tremor of excitement in his voice 
and a flush mantling his face. 

The girl glanced at him in sudden won- 
der. Conscious of his blunder, he quickly 
added : 

"I 'm acquainted with the author." 

"Well, you are very fortunate. I can 

87 



The Port of the Unexpected 

but wish that I were permitted the privilege 
of knowing such a dehghtful man as he 
must be." 

"He is an enterprising lawyer of my 
home city in Ohio. At odd times, when at 
leisure, he does some literary work," he con- 
tinued recklessly, intoxicated with the girl's 
words of commendation. 

The conversation between the man and 
the girl continued for over an hour, during 
which time the various phases of literary 
work were discussed, and their kindred in- 
terests in the world of literature drew them 
more and more into a friendly relationship. 
Though never before had they met, one 
would have taken them for old acquaint- 
ances, so amiable and unabashed was their 
conversation. 

Then came a pause in the pleasant chit- 
chat. The girl stirred slightly and looked 
about as if searching for something. Being 
unsuccessful, she arose and began to search 
in earnest. 

"Have you lost something?" Wakefield 
inquired, rising. 

"Yes," she answered, a frightened ex- 

88 



The Port of the Unexpected 

pression upon her face. "I 've lost my 
purse !" 

Without a word, he began looking about 
where they had been sitting. Soon others 
came up and lent their assistance. On all 
sides they searched most carefully, but all 
effort was futile — the purse could not be 
found. The captain of the steamer, while 
crossing the deck, noticing the crowd, came 
near and, after inquiry, gave his attention 
to the search. Wakefield, standing beside 
the girl, still hopeful of recovering the lost, 
did not look up until the officer was very 
close, then he straightened up. 

He was looking into the captain's face. 
An instant there was utter silence — a quiet 
that boded no good. Smiling, Wakefield 
spoke and thrust forward his hand ; for be- 
fore him stood an old acquaintance, the 
bully of the little country school back in 
Ohio some ten years since. The captain 
did not smile nor notice the hand tendered 
to clasp his own. Instead a dark scowl suf- 
fused his visage and he muttered something 
beneath his breath. With a short step he 
was close to Wakefield. 

89 



The Port of the Unexpected 

"You! you here in this mix-up?" he 
broke forth in such arrogant, insinuating 
tones that the spectators fell back to look 
on in amazement. 

Taken unawares, Wakefield was so dum- 
founded at the sudden outbreak that he 
could only answer in the affirmative. 

''Why, sir, are you here? Why are you 
taking such an interest in this girl's pocket- 
book." The words were savage, harsh, 
threatening. 

''Why am I here ! It 's very evident, 
Captain Rinshaw, that I 'm going dow^n the 
river on your steamer, and I 'm searching 
for the young woman's purse, because it 's 
only right that I should do so." 

The answer seemed only to provoke the 
other's wrath, and again he broke forth : 

"You 're up to your old tricks now, eh ? 
I know you too well !" Then he halted that 
he might see how those standing about were 
taking the proceedings. 

The accused helplessly turned his eyes to- 
ward the girl. Gazing into her face he 
saw the friendly expression of the eyes fade, 
fade until they emitted only coldness and 

90 



The Port of the Unexpected 

scorn. From the spectators he received 
suspicious glances. His heart sank within 
him as he once more turned to the captain, 
and noting the look of hatred upon his ac- 
cuser's face remembrance brought the rea- 
son for the attack. Rinshaw in the old 
days had held a grudge against him, and he 
still harbored it, nursed it, and now the thing 
crazed him. He was having his revenge. 

''Are you sure you have n't got that 
pocketbook?" roared the captain, in his 
coarse, mocking way. 

A flush of anger mounted Wakefield's 
cheeks and he raised his arm, but remem- 
bering that any show of anger on his part 
would add tenfold to the suspicion of the 
onlookers, he let his arm fall to his side. 

"No, I have n't the purse," he answered 
in firm, tense tones, his eyes blazing at Rin- 
shaw. The captain winced under the gaze 
and his eyes fell. 

''Well— well, we '11 see about it." With 
this parting shot he wheeled, ran up the 
stairway and his footfalls could be heard as 
he crossed the upper deck to the pilot house. 

Dazed, overcome, Wakefield gazed wildly 

91 



The Port of the Unexpected 

about him, hoping for some sign of sym- 
pathy, but there was none. He would 
speak, would try to explain ; but facing the 
suspicious glances of the passengers and the 
look of scorn from the girl then turning 
away, accompanied by an elderly woman, he 
was speechless, and before the desired 
words came he was alone. 

Taking a deck-chair near to the railing, 
he sat down and gazing sullenly at the danc- 
ing ripples upon the Ohio's surface and 
at the vista of valley and hill reaching 
away to the horizon, he perceived not the 
beauty or grandeur of either — his thoughts 
were centered upon other things. He 
wished he were a thousand miles awav. 
Angry at himself for making this journey 
by steamer when he could have reached his 
destination by rail in less time, and remem- 
bering that he was doing so merely for the 
pleasure and recreation to be derived there- 
from, he cursed his folly. Deep within 
himself the terrible accusation ate into his 
soul like a cauterizing iron into quivering 
flesh. Yet, with a full realization of his in- 
nocence, he was not blind to the logic of 

92 



The Port of the Unexpected 

the charge — he could not blame his fellow 
passengers for their suspicions nor could 
he censure the girl. He was a stranger to 
them all, save to his accuser, and he alone 
understood the motive of the captain's per- 
secution. 

And thinking thus he smiled a scornful 
smile of indifference, and w^as even tempted 
to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, 
that he, a lawyer, honored and respected, 
should be charged with stealing a young 
woman's purse. 

The Buckeye moved steadily down the 
river, the passengers moved about more 
freely, and all the while the westering sun 
crept nearer its place of exit. 

Wakefield, however, gave no thought to 
the progress of the steamer nor to his sur- 
roundings. He could think only of the ac- 
cusation and the girl — the image of the girl 
haunted his mind continually. Was it the 
bev^itching eyes so fearless and yet so child- 
like, or was it the pleasant personality ac- 
centuated by her beauty that caused him to 
muse so longingly upon the companion of 
an hour now past? He had never thought 

93 



The Port of the Unexpected 

of a woman so before, yet somehow her 
spirit permeated his being. But she, too, 
beheved him guilty — even scorned him. 
Probably she would never know of his in- 
nocence. As this thought came, he was 
tempted to revolt against the silence, go to 
the captain, settle the score, and make him 
confess his rascality. He had whipped him 
in the old days, and certainly he could do it 
again. Then his better manhood took pos- 
session and he despised himself for coun- 
tenancing such thoughts. ''Time," he mut- 
tered under his breath, "will exonerate me." 

And yet — and yet he hated the cloud that 
hung over him. Innocent though he was, 
still the very thought that perhaps the 
months and years might intervene before 
he would be free of all this foul calumny 
haunted him. Doubt, ever the great, 
shadowy skeleton of dying hope, stalked in, 
and as the minutes slipped by he wondered 
and doubted, doubted and wondered. Then, 
finally, with a mighty effort he thrust these 
gloomy thoughts from his mind. 

For a moment he turned his attention to 
his surroundings and saw familiar land- 

94 



The Port of the Unexpected 

scapes on both sides of the river. He was 
within a short distance of his landing place. 

Some one approached. Perhaps it was 
the captain coming to gloat over his victory 
or to further anger his victim. Wakefield 
turned with a black look upon his face, but 
when he saw who stood near, the scowl 
gave place to a look of wonder, and he 
moved nervously on his chair, awaiting 
what she might say. 

The girl at first was startled, but when 
the man's frown had gone she moved nearer 
and sat down. Her eyes, now grave, 
sought his, but he looked beyond her at 
the distant shore, scarcely knowing why he 
did so. 

"Can you ever forgive me? Can you 
ever forget that I caused you so much 
pain — that I 've brought all this upon 
you — " her voice trailed away to silence and 
her form convulsed slightly as if she would 
sob. 

He was now watching her every move 
and hearing her every word. 

She continued: "It was all a mistake — 
a terrible mistake, and I 'm to blame. I 

95 



The Port of the Unexpected 

was the cause of the people aboard sus- 
picioning you of — of taking my purse. O, 
it was terrible! Thoughtlessly I had left 
the purse in our stateroom, and mother just 
found it. Can you — can you ever forgive 
this mistake ?" 

Her eyes were pleading, and as she 
leaned forward, wrapt in the sincerity of 
her plea, her hand lightly touched Wake- 
field's sleeve. 

A loud, coarse whistle came from the 
steamer, followed by another and still an- 
other. The man straightened up and for 
an instant looked away toward the Ohio 
shore. Then he turned to the girl, her 
touch still thrilling him as he had never been 
thrilled before by the touch of a woman's 
hand. 

"Forgive! There isn't anything to for- 
give. I have held nothing against you ; you 
were not to blame. The incident was but 
a false play of fate. Certain that you know 
that I am not guilty, I am happy." 

Her words came with eagerness: ''I am 
glad you hold nothing against me. It re- 
moves such a burden from my mind. I 
trust. Mr. " 

96 



The Port of the Unexpected 

''Wakefield," he interpolated, "Sidney 
Wakefield." 

The boat neared the mooring and the 
usual clamor accompanying the making of 
a landing was borne to the ears of the pair. 
He arose from his chair. 

"Wakefield!" came from the girl ex- 
citedly, her cheeks burning with timidity, 
"why, you are the author of 'The Port of 
the Unexpected,' the story we were talking 
about. Can it be so?" 

"Yes," he answered simply. "Here is my 
landing. Good bye." 

"O, such a day as I 've made of this !" she 
murmured, then extended her hand. "Good 
bye. I 'm sorry I caused you to suffer such 
humiliation — such pain." Then she looked 
straight away into the far distance. 

Pressing her hand gently, Wakefield 
turned, grasped his traveling bag. and 
rushed down the stairway and over the 
gangplank to tlie wharfboat. Briskly he 
moved up the bank. Reaching the top, he 
halted to give the steamer a last look. 

In the light where the rays of the setting 
sun fell across the deck stood the girl lean- 

97 



The Port of the Unexpected 

ing over the railing, a handkerchief flutter- 
ing in her hand. He raised his hat, and as 
the Buckeye disappeared around the bend 
the flush upon his cheeks, dying out, gave 
place to a serious expression, but all the 
while his heart beat joyously with the 
knowledge of a secret. 



q8 



8 1910 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 




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